


Jetzt Hier ist Dein Sieg

by StuffnStuff



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Almost Everyone - Freeform, Angst, Armin & Marco BROTP, Canon Divergence, Cuz I mean what else are OCs good for, Cuz big brother-y Marco is pretty much my favorite, Friends to Lovers, Like SO much canon divergence, M/M, Marco lives!Au, OCs as foil characters, TW: Pain, TW: Violence, Very implied (you really have to squint) EruRi, and canon fodder, but so much angst, how do you tag, tw: depression, tw: disfiguration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 19:17:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StuffnStuff/pseuds/StuffnStuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wohlan Freund!<br/>Jetzt hier ist dein sieg!<br/>Dies ist der erste...</p><p>Marco stared at his dull reflection in the mirror. At the bent, distorted flesh that had once been his face. He might have reached up to touch it, if he'd still had a right arm.<br/>He considered the knife in his left hand. He felt tears at the back of his eyes when he considered the life-long ache in his hip, his inability to take a deep breath, and the monster that stared back out of the mirror. His voce dropped to a choked, ironic whisper.</p><p>"Gloria."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

With a strangled cry, Marco’s eyes snapped open, roving about wildly.

“The titan! Where’s the titan? What’s happening? Wh-“

“Oh my God he’s awake!” Marco’s eyes (well, he could only see out of the left one. The other was covered with gauze, a thin enough layering that dim, textured light made it through) snapped to the left, focusing on the approaching people. Jean. Armin. Sasha. His heart thundered in his chest, adrenaline rushing through his veins. But the presence of the others calmed him somewhat. If they were here, he could be sure they were alive. All the same, he couldn’t help but feel something was missing. He couldn’t even put his finger on exactly what it was. He tried to sit up, but it proved futile. His body was exhausted. He felt more tired than he ever had in his life.

“What happened?” he asked. “How many are left?” The others exchanged a glance.

“The battle’s over, Marco,” Sasha said quietly. That was odd for her. She seemed far more subdued than usual. She looked pale, and she wasn’t smiling.

“Did we win?” Marco asked, trying to figure out why she looked so…shell-shocked. Maybe they had lost? She hesitated, though, looking almost nauseous.

“…Y-Yeah,” she said finally. “We…We won.” Marco smiled, relief washing over him. The expression didn’t feel comfortable, though, seemed to stretch his skin tighter than usual.

“Good,” he said, heart rate finally slowing.

Silence fell, and Marco took a moment to look around, take in his surroundings. He felt vague confusion wash over him, and finally, after he couldn’t deduce the answer on his own, voiced it.

“…Why am I in the infirmary?” The others stiffened, exchanging a shocked glance. Marco wondered what was with all these looks they’d been sharing. It was like they knew something, something he didn’t. After a moment of tense silence, Armin spoke.

“…You don’t remember?” he asked. Marco looked at him in confusion before slowly shaking his head. Armin swallowed. “We…We don’t exactly know what happened either. But during the battle…” he swallowed again, looking pale like Sasha. “…You got hurt,” he finally whispered. “We brought you back to the infirmary. It…It was pretty touch-and-go for a while. We…We thought we’d lost you.” They subsided again into silence, Marco too shocked to immediately respond. He’d almost _died?_ Was it really that bad? Jean was standing bedside him, hands clenched into fists, jaw tight.

“…What did it look like, Marco?” he finally asked. He looked tense enough to snap. “What did the titan that did this to you look like?” Marco stared at him in confusion.

“Why?” he asked. Jean looked like he was fighting not to lash out, to break something, to scream.

“Because I’m going to _kill_ that son of a bitch!” Marco frowned. Why was Jean so upset? Was it really _that_ bad? Something was nagging at the back of his mind, like an itch. Something was missing. Something that should be obvious.

Realization dawned on Marco and he felt himself go cold.

He swallowed thickly and turned to look at the others with wide eyes. “…Why can’t I feel my arm?” he asked breathlessly, almost a whisper. The others froze. Marco looked between them, horrified, frightened. “Why can’t I feel my arm?!” he repeated. Armin wouldn’t meet his eyes. Sasha looked like she was fighting not to cry. It was Jean who finally broke, falling to his knees in a display of weakness Marco had never seen from him before. He clutched at the side of Marco’s cot, head bowed.

“I’m sorry, Marco, I should have been there, I should have _fucking been there-“_ Marco couldn’t take this. He threw off the covers, terror and shock giving him the strength to push himself up to seated. And he froze, staring. Uncomprehending.

It was gone.

His right arm. Gone.

Just gone. Like it had never been there in the first place.

He stared at the somewhat bloodstained bandages running all down his torso. It…no. This…this couldn’t be real. It wasn’t. It just…it just _couldn’t_ be.

There was a dent in his torso reaching partway up his right collarbone.

Oh my God.

There was a _bite_ out of the majority of his chest, his shoulder, the upper part of his hip.

But…no. That just wasn’t possible. It- I mean- He’d-… It had happened to someone else. This wasn’t _his_ body. It couldn’t be. Because he _did_ have a right arm, he _didn’t_ have a partially crushed ribcage, he _didn’t_ hear a sickening crackling coming from a crushed hip. He was Marco. He was complete. This couldn’t be him. It just couldn’t be.

Marco swallowed hard, fighting not to vomit.

A nurse swam into his field of vision, urging him to breathe. Another insisted, nearly to the point of shouting, that his friends leave before joining her companion. The two of them coerced him into lying back down, and he was too stunned, too bewildered, too denying to struggle or refuse. The pain was entirely distant, entirely removed when they reset his shattered hip. Marco could only lay there, staring at the ceiling, everything in his mind rejecting what he’d seen, the pain he felt.

He stayed there long and silent. Staring at the ceiling. Trying not to think, trying not to imagine, trying not to remember. For a while, part of him even tried not to breathe. Finally, long after the sun had set, he still lay there, sleepless. One question continued to circle his mind, and his imagination was pushed off to the side, forbidden in any way to answer it.

…

Why did he have gauze on his _face?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing emotions is hard. Really, really fucking hard. Writing Jean as IC as possible is hard, especially in this situation. Cuz he’s all crass and stuff, but we all know he actually really cares, so I had to try to find a balance between the two and OH DEAR LORD I DID MY BEST I’M SORRY. (I’m also not very nice to Sasha but it’s not her fault I mean if I were in that situation I’d probably freak out too)
> 
> Okay so here’s the thing and I know it’s not realistic but whatever: When Marco got attacked the injury was really, really bad, but he was still alive (the injuries are slightly less serious than in actual canon, for example the cranial cavity of his skull isn’t crushed so there’s no brain damage). It’s only because he was left out there for days in the actual show that he died. So in this, he was found sooner and that’s why he’s still alive. There you have it. I know it’s nonrealistic but this is fanfiction people, and if you have a problem with the fact that Marco’s alive then you’re reading the wrong story. XD
> 
> Oh, and let it be said that shock, especially in extreme cases, leads to memory loss, numbness, situational unawareness, etc.
> 
> Oh, another fun fact: I’m not a surgeon. I don’t know how surgery works. But since the AoT universe doesn’t have modern medicine, I figure my rudimentary knowledge and common sense would be close enough to what they’d actually do. If I get something wrong, don’t kill me. I tried.
> 
> Okay so enough blathering. Here we go. Warnings for this chapter: LOTS of violence, swearing, graphic depictions of pain etc. ENJOY.

 Ash was falling. It was almost like snow.

As Jean walked, he found himself entirely detached from everything around him. He didn’t think. He didn’t speak. He was only aware of the fact that he was even still alive because he was walking. He passed piles of rubble that had once been homes. Bodies on the streets that meant as much to him as dolls. He felt as if he were floating, like he was watching someone else’s nightmare.

They’d been told to find injured and bring them back.

The bodies would be collected and disposed of later.

As he passed, a building gave one final groan and collapsed, rubble crumbling around its base. Jean’s eyes fixed on it, unfocused. A thousand hollow faces stared back at him from a shattered mirror. He wondered that he could still breathe and walk when his eyes looked so dead.

Jean wandered like a wraith, a ghost among the floating ash. Bodies littered the streets or lay broken and crumpled in ruined buildings. No one breathed. Jean wondered if he too had ceased breathing. Occasional embers hovered along, momentarily bright, but flickering and fading quickly. Broken glass shattered under his feet, blood trickled between cobblestones and down gutters.

Jean turned down another street, this one seeming mostly immaculate. The fronts of the buildings on this side still stood, or at least the majority did, which was more than could be said for a lot of what he’d seen. If the ash had been gone, Jean might have been able to mistake this street for one from another district, one that hadn’t been entirely damned to hell in one day. But it couldn't be from here, from Trost. Too many had died, he’d seen too much, had condemned too many because _he_ needed to live.

About halfway down the street Jean could make out a figure, reclining against a wall. As if relaxing. As if asleep. _Is it your nightmare I’m watching…?_ Jean wondered dimly. _Or is this undestroyed street your dream, and the nightmare everywhere else is mine?_ Jean found himself approaching. He wanted to ask him. The figure had to know the answer, right?

He drew up before the figure, looking down at it with unseeing eyes. In his half-dead state it almost looked like the figure was looking back up at him. But that much had to be part of the dream, because nobody could live, not like that. Not with the edges of ribs protruding like knives from where the right side of their chest just _ended_. Not with the amount of blood still chugging sluggishly from the protruding organs, nearly indiscernible from the tattered muscle around them. Not with the state of the right side of his face, hardly more than a mass of crimson, the eye so drenched with blood it nearly blended in. It was too bad, Jean had thought he could answer his questions-

“Jean.”

And suddenly Jean wasn’t dreaming anymore.

His eyes widened with shock, horror. He stumbled back a few steps, nearly falling, eyes locked on the figure before him. His heart was pounding enormously, but try as he might, for a moment no sound could pass his lips. The figure’s eyes followed him, blood dripping from his mouth from speaking.

“M-Marco?!” Jean asked breathlessly, blood still pounding in his ears. The figure, Marco, smiled, the left side of his face pulling up into a tired softness, the muscles on the right, not hidden by skin, writhing and contorting, trying to do the same. Blood dripped from his face with renewed vigor.

“Hi Jean.” Marco sounded tired, and as he spoke fresh blood sprung from his lips. It made sense, seeing as Jean could _see some of his right lung._ Jean stared at him. How could Marco be so calm about this? Didn’t it hurt? And if it didn’t hurt, what did that mean, medically? He was practically _cut in half_ and Marco opens with ‘hi’?! _He’s bleeding he needs help he’s losing too much blood what if he dies?! Holy shit what the fuck do I do I have no fucking clue how to fix this, what do I-_ Jean forced himself to stop the panic attack. _Forced_ himself to. Locked it down, shoving back the fear and desperation. Marco had said once that he could be a leader. So it was time to make a fucking decision and get something done. Jean drew in a shaky breath.

“I won’t let you die, Marco.” He knew what this meant, as much as part of his mind told him it was _wrong_. “…I’ll be right back.” Jean turned, moving to take a step away and froze.

This could very well be the last time he ever saw Marco alive.

He screwed his eyes shut, physically fighting to keep from turning around, turning back. “I’ll be _right back_ ,”he promised again, more to himself than Marco this time. He wouldn’t let another friend die today. He wouldn’t let _this_ friend die today.

Jean sprinted down the street as fast as his legs could carry him. He cupped both hands around his mouth, screaming at the top of his lungs. “CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?! ANYONE?! I NEED HELP _NOW!”_ He pelted down streets, shouting for anyone.

He couldn’t carry a stretcher by himself.

“COME ON, FUCKING SOMEONE ANSWER ME!! ANYONE!! THERE’S SOMEONE _DYING!!”_ It hurt Jean to even say, but he knew it was true. If Marco didn’t get help soon he’d be gone. His voice took on a still more desperate pitch. “SOMEONE!! _PLEA-“_

“JEAN?!” The voice was faded as if it’d come from a great distance. “JEAN WHERE ARE YOU?” It sounded like Armin. Jean had never wished so hard for a flare gun.

“HERE! FOLLOW MY VOICE!! IS THERE ANYONE WITH YOU?!” Jean had instantly started running in the direction Armin’s voice had come from.

“YES! SASHA’S WITH ME. BUT WHAT DOES THAT-“ Sasha. Yes. Okay. Jean had seen the two of them train. Sasha was more physically strong than Armin, but Armin, unburdened, could undoubtedly run faster.

“OKAY THAT’S GREAT SEND SASHA TO ME, YOU RUN TO THE INFIRMARY AND TELL THEM TO FINISH UP WHOEVER THEY’RE OPERATING ON BECAUSE THERE’S A CRITICAL PATIENT COMING IN!!” There was a pause.

“OKAY. GOT IT. SASHA’S ON HER WAY.”

“JEAN KEEP SHOUTING SO I CAN FIND YOU.” Sasha’s voice was definitely closer. “ANY LANDMARKS YOU’RE NEAR?!” Jean looked up at the crumbled and broken buildings around him, searching for something unique.

“…I THINK ONE OF THESE BUILDINGS USED TO BE A CHURCH…THERE’S THE REMAINS OF A CLOCK TOWER-“

“OKAY I’M ON MY WAY, I THINK I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE.” Her voice was definitely closer than before, but Jean felt no relief. Wouldn’t until he could be sure Marco wasn’t dead or dying. The thought sent another spear of dread through his guts. What if it was already too late?!

“HURRY, SASHA, I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG HE’S GOING TO LAST!!” Jean’s heart was going a mile a minute and it wasn’t from the running.

Sasha came speeding around the corner, nearly skidding into a wall with her momentum. Jean didn’t even wait for her to get all the way to him before turning and running back the way he’d come. By now Sasha was panting too hard for conversation anyway.

She was faster than him and he knew it, so by the time they reached the street Marco was in, she had drawn even with him. Jean thanked whatever deities existed that they’d had to run for literal _miles_ during training, thanked them twice that they’d been training for three years and had the stamina to do this.

When they finally approached Marco, Sasha froze, stopping about 20 feet away.

“J-Jean?!” she was staring at Marco, eyes wide. “Wh-Who-“

“That’s not important right now Sasha now HELP ME.” She didn’t move, merely started to tremble lightly.

“Th-That’s a corpse, Jea-“

“NOT YET HE’S NOT AND LIKE HELL I’M LETTING HIM DIE HERE.” Sasha was pale, shaking, and when she took a step back Jean knew inherently she would flee.

“Holy crap. Jean he’s _de-“_ Jean grabbed her by the shoulders, spinning her to face him and shaking her hard once.

“SASHA FUCKING BRAUS YOU LISTEN TO ME. YOU WILL HELP ME GET HIM TO THE INFIRMARY OR SO HELP ME GOD I _WILL_ KILL YOU FOR BEING DIRECTLY RESPONSIBLE FOR HIS DEATH. NOW HELP ME TEAR THIS DOOR OFF.” She stared up at him, mouth open, for a moment, then snapped back to reality. She shook herself, taking a deep breath.

“R-Right.” Jean could tell she was still terrified but dammit he needed her right now so if he had to bully her into it so fucking be it. She followed him over to a mostly immaculate house, though the door hung only half on its hinges.

“Help me get this off.” His tone left no room for disobedience and she nodded. With a massive pull on Jean’s part and a healthy kick to the remaining hinge from Sasha, the door came free with a sound of splintering wood. It wasn’t exactly a hospital-quality stretcher, but it’d work.

Jean hauled the door back to Marco’s prone frame, Sasha in tow.

“Okay Marco, I’m back just like I promised and look, Sasha’s here too! We’re going to take you to the infirmary and everything’s going to be all right, okay?” Even Jean could hear the edge of desperate hysteria in his voice. Beside him, Sasha started.

“Th-That’s…Marco?!” Marco’s eyes roved slowly past Jean to Sasha and she stared in morbid, horrified fixation as he tried to smile.

“Hi Sasha,” he said, voice barely more than a murmur.

“Holy shit he is alive,” she said, voice breathless. And it snapped her back into action. “Okay, okay. It’s okay.” Her eyes took in the amount of blood accumulated on the pavement. “All right first things first we need to keep him awake. Jean, keep talking to him. If he falls unconscious he’s a goner.” Sasha and Jean maneuvered the door, laying it flat beside Marco. “Okay. Okay.” Her breathing was accelerating slightly, the panic of the direness of the situation setting in.

“Let’s get him onto the door.” Glancing at him, Sasha could tell Jean was equally panicky. Together at least they’d have the capacity of one average, non-adrenaline-addled thought process. Jean’s eyes shifted back to Marco. “This is probably going to hurt like a bitch. Sorry.” Eyes back to Sasha. “Grab his legs.” Sasha wrapped one forearm under his lower calf, the other under his knees. One of Jean’s arms went under Marco’s left armpit, the other awkwardly under his back, blood already seeping in and through his uniform jacket.

“No wait! Bind his side first using your jacket!” Sasha felt her stomach revolt. “We…uh…well we don’t want to drop…anything when we move him.” Jean glanced back at the hideous wound to Marco’s right torso and abdomen. It was true, there was a risk of losing parts if they moved him like this. And whatever was left of Marco’s internal organs would definitely be necessary for his survival. Jean tore off his jacket, tying it as best as he could around Marco’s frame. It was horrifically bizarre how much smaller his chest was, nearly halved at the deepest point. The sleeves of Jean’s jacket reached around once and a half.

“Give me yours too,” he half growled, tugging the knot in the sleeve tight, trying to somehow abate the blood flow. _Damned fucking_ half jackets. _Who the_ FUCK _wears a half jacket?!_ Sasha offered her coat wordlessly and Jean tied it around what he could of the still exposed wound. It was mediocre at best and blood already saturated his coat, but it was better than nothing.

Through it all Marco hadn’t even winced. It scared Jean more than anything.

“Okay _now_ it’s time to get him on the door.” Sasha nodded assent, reassuming her former position at Marco’s legs. Jean again wrapped one arm under Marco’s left armpit, the other braced awkwardly behind his back. “Count of three.” He glanced at Sasha and she nodded grimly again. “Really sorry about this, Marco…” he murmured. “One. Two. Three!” With a mutual heave Marco was off the ground, weight balanced equally between them.

And for the first time he screamed.

“Fuck it, Sasha, _hurry!”_ Jean shouted over Marco’s pained wailing. He could hear unhealthy crackling coming from Marco’s ribs, and a far louder, more grotesque grinding coming from his right hip. Jean could feel him spasming weakly in his arms, the pain contorting his muscles.

They set him on the door as quickly as possible, and Marco’s screaming slowly subdued to whimpering. When he opened his eyes again they were a bit clearer than before, the agony lending him awareness.

“J-Jean…?” he asked breathily, chest still tight with pain. Jean and Sasha bent, each grabbing one end of the door. “Jean what’s happening? Where am I?”

“One, two, three!” Again they simultaneously lifted, this time the door and Marco. Sasha, being slightly shorter, had to raise her end of the door a little, doing her best to keep it level. “Okay let’s go!”

Working in the maneuver gear in team exercises lent them an advantage. They’d already had practice coordinating their movements, so acclimating themselves to each other’s presence and body language was easy, almost automatic. Sasha led the way, both of them doing their best to keep the door and its passenger even and as undisturbed as possible as they jogged down the decimated streets.

“Jean talk to him, keep him conscious,” Sasha said grimly.

“Hey Marco,” Jean panted. Marco already seemed to be slipping into a state of shock again, any lucidity he’d gained fading. “You’re going to be all right. We’re taking you to the infirmary and everything’s going to be okay. I need you to keep looking at me, though, okay? Stay focused on me.” An entirely destroyed (as in half of it was _across the street)_ building lent them a massive shortcut. They were halfway there. As they drew nearer they began passing more and more people, Sasha shouting instructions for them to clear a path as they went.

“The sky’s so pretty today, Jean. It’s like snow…but it’s not cold…?” The end of Marco’s sentence trailed up into a question, almost childish. “…I’m sleepy.” Jean felt his heart stop.

“I need you to _stay awake_ , Marco, _please, please_ stay awake!” Jean knew is voice had taken on a desperate pitch again, and knew also that Sasha heard it. They sped up simultaneously. Jean watched Marco’s eyes rove lazily from his face to the sky to the buildings around them, seemingly untroubled by the occasional bouncing and jolting borne of their renewed haste. His eyes were growing progressively more unfocused.

“…Have you ever dreamed of flying, Jean? I thought-“ he half-choked, half-gurgled, and a clot of congealed blood spewed out of his mouth, sliding sluggishly down his face. He didn’t seem to notice, merely continuing to speak. “I thought after using the maneuver gear I wouldn’t dream of flying anymore. I was wrong, though. The dreams just got more realistic.”

“Marco, _look at me!”_ Jean pleaded desperately. They were _almost there._ Marco’s eyes wandered listlessly over the clouds, high above. Jean could feel tears burning at the back of his eyes. “Sasha _hurry!”_ he cried desperately. They whipped down streets, people leaping to the side to clear them a path, and at the end of this thoroughfare Jean could _see it._

“I’d like to dream of flying ri…ght… n…” Marco’s sentence trailed off and Jean’s eyes snapped back down to him.

“No Marco don’t you fucking _dare do this to me you BASTARD!”_ The end of the sentence rose to a scream, and sheer volume alone was probably what drew Marco’s eyes back to his face. He blinked once, slowly. “MARCO YOU STAY THE FUCK AWAKE, YOU HEAR ME?!” Jean knew he was nearly shrieking, but he _didn’t care._ “I WON’T LET YOUR IDIOT ASS DIE BECAUSE YOU TRIED TO SAVE ME. YOU CAN’T DO THAT TO ME MARCO I CAN’T-“ Jean’s voice cracked, breaking off. It dropped dramatically in volume. “I couldn’t live with myself, Marco. So don’t you dare leave me with that.” Marco’s eyes were now locked on Jean’s face, widened slightly in surprise.

“We’re here,” Sasha said, almost hesitant as if interrupting something.  Jean’s eyes moved back from Marco’s face to their destination. As they approached, they slowed from a desperate sprint to an efficient jog.

The temporary infirmary that had been set up to deal with patients from the battle wasn’t a permanent construction. Plain canvas tents served as rooms as there were more of those available than actual buildings right now. As they approached, a group of nurses bustled out of the tent Jean assumed to be the current ‘operating room’, Armin just behind them. The leader of the group, a woman with sharp cheekbones and a nose that had seen at least two breaks, stopped just short of them, eyes freezing on Marco before snapping up to Sasha.

“You’re sure he’s still alive?”

“Yes,” Sasha said firmly.

“Bring him in.” There was no hesitation, no questions, and she spoke with unwavering authority. “The doctor’s ready for him. You’re lucky your friend got here first so we had time to prepare.” She led them into the tent, another nurse holding open the flap so they could pass through easily.

Inside, the light was muted somewhat, falling off-white through the old canvas. Extra lanterns were mounted on the support posts to give yet more light. A man with an already bloodstained apron waited for them inside, standing beside what was probably a commandeered kitchen table.

“Set him here,” the nurse commanded sharply. Jean and Sasha complied unhesitatingly, Armin hanging like a shadow behind them. He had yet to speak, but Jean could tell from his stricken expression that he’d identified Marco.

The doctor took a moment to just look, assessing the damage. Beside him, an old end table or nightstand held everything from scalpels to needles to bone saws. Against one of the far walls was a cart with clean bandages, towels, any cloth that could be salvaged and called anything close to sanitary seemed to be gathered there.

He grabbed a scalpel, expertly cutting away the makeshift bandaging of their jackets and what remained of Marco’s shirt. His eyes turned grim seeing the true extent of the damage beneath. He glanced between Jean, Sasha, and Armin.

“Your comrade?”

“Yes,” Jean answered instantly. The doctor held his gaze for a moment, then looked back to Marco.

“I’ll do my best.”

He reached for a needle and thread.

“Doctor. Anesthesia? He’s still conscious,” the head nurse said. Her voice was nearly monotone, detached.

“No, he’s lost too much blood. Anesthesia or pain medication of any kind might kill him, even in a small dose. I don’t want to risk it.” He glanced up and between Sasha, Jean, and Armin again. “Hold him down,” he commanded matter-of-factly. Jean stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“What?!” he snapped. Sasha and Armin were both staring at the doctor with the same horror Jean knew reflected in his own eyes. “You’re going to operate on him without _any_ kind of pain relief?!” The doctor looked up at him, meeting his gaze evenly.

“I told you I’d do my best to save him and this is it. If you’d like I can give him an injection of anesthesia and at least he won’t die in his current agony. If you want him to live, you have to hold him down so when he starts writhing he won’t tear his stitches or hurt himself further. The only reason we still have a chance to save him at all is that the titan’s saliva seared closed some of his injuries.” His eyes returned to Marco as he tested the strength of the thread. “We have to sew together what remains of the skin on his right side in order to have any hope of stopping the bleeding. Be careful on his right collarbone, I’m sure it’s broken.” The doctor looked between them as if to measure their mettle. “This will be painful, he will scream, he will cry, he will beg, and I can’t guarantee he’ll live through it. But this is the only chance he has of living at all, so _make your choice._ ” Jean swallowed thickly, hesitating only for a moment, then stepped forward.

He placed his hands securely on Marco’s shoulders (the hand on the right side closer to his neck where a patch of skin remained between the missing arm and his face, pressing him firmly into the table. Armin stared at him in shock for a moment, then, seeming to steel himself, approached the table, holding down Marco’s remaining arm. Sasha glanced between the two of them and Jean could practically see the revulsion she was experiencing, but after a moment she too stepped forward, holding down Marco’s left leg while one of the nurses held the right. The doctor didn’t comment, merely set to work.

“Nurse, while I’m doing this try to reset his hip.” The doctor’s voice still maintained the composure from before. The head nurse nodded, stepping around the bottom of the table and approaching Marco’s injured side.

“Jean what’s happening?” Marco asked quietly, Jean’s eyes snapping back to his face when he spoke. Jean felt his guts trying to shrivel up and die.

“They’re going to make you better, Marco,” Jean said, too horrified to speak above a breathy murmur. “They’re going to make you-“ Marco yelped as the doctor stuck the needle through the first selected piece of skin, near Marco’s missing arm, near Jean’s right hand.

“O-Ouch…” Marco murmured, and despite being focused on Marco’s face Jean could see out of the corner of his eye how the thread dragged through Marco’s skin like fabric. His stomach clenched tighter still, and he swallowed back any urge to vomit. Marco’s brows furrowed slightly and Jean couldn’t help but be reminded of a child. “It hurts, Jean…” Jean’s jaw clenched hard, tears pressing against his throat painfully.

“I’m sorry, Marco. Bear with it. You’re going to be-“

Marco’s scream – accompanied by a horrid crunch – cut Jean off. Jean felt Marco’s whole body tense as he tried to sit up, tried to reach out to stop the pain-

“Hold him _still_ , soldier!” the nurse ordered, hands already stained red as they pressed against the visible bones in Marco’s hip. Jean hated himself as he forced his grip tighter, pressed Marco back down and harder against the table.

And when Marco looked up at him with shocked betrayal in his eyes, Jean wished someone would rip his heart out and tear it up in front of him.

“Jean? Jean what are you doi-“ his own screaming interrupted his speech as the nurse tried again to reset the entirely shattered bones of his hip. This time Jean was ready when Marco tried to buck, but he could see that Armin was nearly thrown off Marco’s arm, the limb slamming him in the chest painfully. When Marco’s eyes opened again Jean could see tears beginning to form in them.

“Make it stop! Jean, you’re hurting me!” The doctor dragged the needle through him again and the first sob – accompanied by a choked noise of pain – tore out of Marco’s throat like a knife. “PLEASE STOP!” he screamed, eyes squeezing shut. Jean could see he was fighting, could see how Sasha and the other nurse struggled to secure his legs, could feel the pressure against his own hands as Marco tried to get away, could see how Armin was relying on bodyweight as well as strength to suppress Marco’s arm.

“I’m sorry…” Jean said breathlessly, feeling tears trying to rise in his own eyes.

“Jean, _help me! Save me!”_ Marco sobbed, screaming again when the nurse pressed a different part of his hip back into place. “Why are you doing this? Please, Jean!” Tears streamed down his face, visible only on the unmarred side.

“I’m sorry,” Jean repeated again. “I-…I can’t-“ Marco screamed again, the sound the most desperate plea yet, something that tore Jean’s heart to pieces. He could hear the genuine _agony_ Marco was suffering.

“This is _CRUEL_ can’t you _DO SOMETHING?_ I thought doctors were supposed to _HELP PEOPLE!”_ Armin choked. Jean looked over to see that he had begun openly crying as well, though his pain was nonphysical. Glancing down, Jean could see Marco wasn’t fighting Armin anymore.

He was clinging to Armin’s hand for dear life.

The desperate familiarity, the _humanity_ of it, as Marco’s sobs and screams became unintelligible, was tearing Jean’s heart apart. Time passed, and unlike wandering the streets of Trost after the battle Jean didn’t grow numb. Every tear, every sob, every scream tore at Jean’s insides like fishhooks, and Jean knew, whatever he did moving forward in life to redeem himself, he was damned.

Because this was his fault.

“Start binding his chest, I’m moving onto his face.” The doctor, who had spent his time progressing down Marco’s torso, suddenly reappeared beside Jean. “I need you to hold his head still now. Grab the left side of his forehead and his hair. Don’t let him move or I may end up damaging his eye.” Jean hesitantly did as he was told, settling one hand, palm down, on Marco’s left forehead, the other tangling in blood-matted hair. “We’re quite lucky. He leaned his face away from the attack, so there’s no damage to his cranial cavity. His cheekbone and jaw are broken, though, and there’s not much skin left to patch together…” the doctor continued talking, more to the nurses than to Jean, and Jean stopped listening altogether.

Marco was staring up at him, tears staining his face, eyes full of pain and desperation and _loneliness._

“Why, Jean?” he whispered, fresh tears slipping from his eyes. “Why aren’t you helping me? Why are you letting them hurt me?” He sobbed again. “Do you hate me?” Jean opened his mouth to respond, but the doctor had already started in on stitching what remained of Marco’s face and the screaming began anew. Marco was still fighting desperately, trying to yank his head away, to shield his face from the hurt to no avail. Jean’s grip on his head was firm and strong, and Marco’s blood-deprived muscles couldn’t exceed him. His hands were stained deep red with Marco’s blood, their shade nearly matching the torn and broken flesh itself, and Jean could never wash his hands enough. Marco’s last question echoed in his head endlessly.

_Do you hate me?_

_Do you hate me?_

Red hands…

_Do you hate me?_

And they wouldn’t ever be any less red, no matter what he did.

_Do you hate me?_

And by the sheer tone of voice he’d used, Jean knew Marco honestly believed the answer was yes.

And finally Jean’s body overcame him and he turned his head away, bending slightly to retch on the ground. Tears fell beside the mess, Jean’s own, much smaller sobs drowned out by Marco’s agonized ones.

But he continued to hold Marco’s head still and the doctor kept stitching.

“You will live,” Jean whispered, tears spilling down his face. “Damn me forever, but you _will live.”_

 

* * *

 

“You honestly think you did him a favor, don’t you?” Jean straightened slightly from where he’d sat slumped on a bench, Sasha and Armin beside him, head cradled in his hands. He stared hollowly back up at the doctor, who scrubbed vigorously at his hands, trying to wash off Marco’s blood. Jean felt so utterly dead inside he felt no matter what the doctor said he’d have no emotional response left to use. The doctor sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. He looked…tired.

“I know after that you’d probably like to see me as a monster. But I’m human too, all right? Cut me some slack. I did what you asked. He’ll live. But…” his eyes opened again, fixing on Jean. “I have never seen anything as cruel as what you’ve condemned him to.”

“He’ll liv-“

“You call that _life?!”_ the doctor nearly shouted, throwing the towel he’d been using to dry his hands across the room. Jean stiffened, taken aback by his response. “I’ve done some shitty things in my life, and my mistakes have seen a lot of people dead, but how much do you have to _despise him_ to make him endure this?!” Jean felt something growing dimly in his chest, some spark of some emotion.

Anger.

“What, you think because he’ll live everything else with just ‘get better’?! If I’d let that poor boy die on my table he’d be better off for it!”

“How _dare you-“_ Jean snarled, already beginning to rise to his feet.

“Do you fucking realize he may never walk again?!” Cold doused over Jean like someone had dumped a bucket of water on him. The doctor’s hands were clenched into fists at his sides. “And even if he does, it _will_ _always_ hurt and he _will_ _always_ limp. For the rest of this ‘life’ you’ve given him! And with only one functional lung? Getting up stairs will be like summiting a mountain! Every effort will cost him twice as much!” Every muscle in Jean’s body felt tensed to snap, but not with anger like before. He dimly realized there were tears in the doctor’s eyes. “And tell me this: was he right handed?” Jean felt like someone had punched him in the gut. “If so, he’ll never write normally again. And playing almost any instrument is out of the question.” A dim memory of Marco at a piano bench, eyes wide like he'd been caught doing something wrong, flitted through Jean’s mind. “Daily life will become a _struggle_ , the simplest of tasks ten times as difficult!” The doctor’s previous anger sizzled down to a quiet snarl. “Not to mention his face. With the damage to his facial bones, it’s not just going to be a little scarring. Your ‘friend’ is going to be _deformed_. For the _rest of his life._ You really think anyone will ever look at him like he’s actually human again? And you act all noble, like you’re his _best friend in the world_ for doing this, for ‘saving him.’ But let’s make a bet, you and I. The first time you see his face again, without bandages, I bet you will _turn tail and never come back._ I’ve _seen_ your kind before, kid. You like to think you’re heroes. But you don’t stick around to see the actual consequences of your ‘heroism’. I hope to heaven that you don’t think for _one instant_ that you saved this boy. He may be alive, but _not everyone wants to be.”_

“I’m not a hero,” Jean whispered. The doctor leaned closer.

“What was that, I didn’t quite _catch it._ ” Jean’s eyes snapped up to him and he fought to blink the tears away.

“I’M NOT A HERO,” he practically screamed in the doctor’s face. “ _HE’S_ the hero! All _I_ am is _selfish_ and _cowardly_ and _pathetic_ and a _monster!_ _He saved my life getting those wounds._ ” Jean stood, eyes nearly blazing. “IT’S MY FUCKING FAULT HE’S LIKE THAT. MY STUPIDITY MADE HIM SAVE ME. MY COWARDICE COULDN’T WATCH HIM DIE IN FRONT OF ME ON THAT STREET. AND IT’S BECAUSE OF ME AND MY GOD _DAMNED_ SELFISHNESS THAT HE’S STILL ALIVE, THAT HE HAS AND IS GOING TO HAVE TO ENDURE ALL THIS.” He could feel his nails biting dully into his palms. Jean’s voice dropped low.

“And you know what? I’m _still_ so _fucking_ _selfish..._  It doesn’t matter _how much_ he hates me, doesn’t matter _how much_ he wants me _gone_ after what _I_ put him through, _I will be by his side until the day he dies."_  Jean ignored the tears he could feel on his face. "Because I’m selfish and that’s what _I_ want, and to _hell_ with everything else!”

 

* * *

 

Jean lay in his bunk, staring blindly up at the darkened wooden ceiling above him. Around him, he could hear the other survivors of the 104th shifting in their sleep, tossing in the nightmares that had plagued them all since Trost, now almost 3 weeks ago. All except one. Jean slung an arm over his tired, dry eyes. He didn’t really bother trying to sleep anymore. He knew what waited for him behind his eyelids.

Ever since he’d been transferred back to the infirmary attached to the barracks and the subsequent panic attack upon waking, Jean and the others had been prevented from visiting Marco. The sharp-faced nurse – Jean had learned by now her name was Patria – had always caught them whenever they’d tried to slip in. She said Marco needed time to recover physically before he’d be ready to see them again, since apparently that could be emotionally taxing for him.

Jean scowled, pressing his arm harder against his eyes. He knew she was only doing it for Marco’s wellbeing. As time passed he could see she was growing fond of him, just based on the change in her intonation on his name and the level of concern she showed for him specifically. Marco had that affect on people.

But right now, all he could think about was what she’d said to him a few hours ago. _“All right, Jean Kirschtein, all right! Come back tomorrow afternoon. If you swear you will be well behaved at all times, I will let you see him.” Her eyes hardened on him, nearing a glare. “But so help me Rose,_ one _cruel comment, if you even_ look _at him the wrong way, you. are._ out _.” Her gaze softened somewhat, but it was more sad than kind. “He doesn’t deserve any more pain.”_

Tomorrow.

As if Jean didn’t already have _enough_ trouble sleeping.

Equal parts anxiety and excitement twisted his stomach. He’d get to see his best friend again. _Yeah, but in what condition?_ the cold, cynical part of his mind whispered. The words of the doctor all those weeks ago echoed in his mind. What would Marco behave like now? Would he be different? Angry? Sad? Disappointed?

…What would he look like?

Jean rolled over, pulling the blanket up to his chin, forcing himself to close his eyes and get some kind of rest. _It doesn’t matter,_ he snapped at himself.

_I will be by his side until the day he dies._

Jean knew he always had been and, as far into the future as he could see, always would be selfish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I did the best job conveying what I meant when Jean went on his little self-loathing rant, specifically the end. What I was going for is that Jean doesn't see himself as anyone to be looked up to, just a collection of flaws that have somehow managed to succeed so far at surviving. So when he was saying he was 'selfish', especially in regards to staying with Marco, it's mislabeled loyalty because after hearing what Marco's going to be going through he doesn't believe he's capable of something good like that.
> 
> ...Yeah I did a pretty shitty job explaining that. Well...sorry? It was hard, okay?
> 
> I'll have the next chapter out when I can. No promises on when.


End file.
